Chapter 7: The Morning After
Grace awoke to the solid warmth of Skye wrapped around her, a fortress of sleep-soft muscle. The thin morning light painted their room in shades of grey and gold. She was deliciously sore, a persistent, happy ache between her legs that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. Skye’s breath was a steady rhythm against the back of her neck. They were both still naked except for their socks, a ridiculous and intimate detail that made Grace smile into the pillow.
She carefully extracted herself, slipping from Skye’s loosened grip. The floorboards were cool under her feet. She padded to her wardrobe, the quiet of the house feeling sacred. She bypassed her usual stack of boy-shorts. Her fingers found the pair of simple cotton panties, pale blue, one of the few she owned that weren’t sporty briefs. She stepped into them, the soft fabric a new sensation against her skin.
Skye’s shirt from last night lay in a heap by the bed, the black fabric smelling of sweat, perfume, and them. Grace picked it up and pulled it on. It swamped her, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips, the collar loose. She buried her nose in the soft cotton at the neck and inhaled deeply. Skye’s scent was everywhere, a possession she willingly wore.
She heard the rustle of sheets. Turning, she saw Skye sitting up, stretching with a groan that showcased the powerful lines of her torso. She blinked sleepily, then her gaze focused on Grace, a slow smile spreading.
“Hey, you,” Skye murmured, her voice gravelly with sleep.
She climbed out of bed, revealing a plain black bra and matching boyshorts that hugged her athletic frame. She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around Grace, pulling her into a hug that was all warm skin and quiet comfort. Grace melted into it, her hands sliding under the straps of Skye’s bra to feel the solid muscle of her back.
“Mornin’, sexy girlfriend,” Skye whispered into her hair. She pulled back just enough to look at her. “Fuck, you look good in my shirt.” Her eyes darkened. “And last night… Jesus, Grace. For a beginner? You were a natural with that strap. The way you moved. I’ve never felt anything like it.”
A flush of pride warmed Grace’s chest. She turned in Skye’s arms to face her, a teasing glint in her eye. “Oh yeah? So how does the expert normally do it then? How does Skye Jacobs usually fuck girls with her big, fake cock?”
Skye’s grin turned wicked. In one fluid motion, her hands were on Grace’s waist, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. Grace let out a small yelp as her backside met the cool, cluttered wood of her own desk. Skye stepped between her legs, pushing the long shirt open. Her hands slid up Grace’s bare hips, over her ribs, until her thumbs brushed the undersides of Grace’s small, pert breasts. The touch was electric, claiming.
Skye leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of Grace’s ear. Her voice dropped to a low, confidential rumble. “Normally?” she breathed. “The girls I strap are face down. Pressed into a pillow so all they can do is scream into it. Sometimes their wrists are tied to the bedposts with my rugby laces. And I pound into them, hard and fast, until they can’t remember their own names. Until the only word they know is mine.”
Grace’s breath hitched. A hot, liquid pulse throbbed between her legs, soaking the thin cotton of her new panties. The image was brutally vivid: the helplessness, the complete surrender, the relentless force of Skye taking what she wanted.
Skye’s hand slid from Grace’s breast, down her stomach, and slipped effortlessly inside the waistband of her panties. Her fingers found Grace’s slick, swollen flesh. She didn’t enter her, just circled her clit with a teasing, knowing pressure. “Hearing that makes you fucking drenched, doesn’t it?” Skye whispered, her teeth grazing Grace’s earlobe.
Grace could only nod, her head falling back with a soft thud against the wall.
“My birthday’s tomorrow,” Skye continued, her finger moving in slow, maddening circles. “You get me the perfect present… and I’ll do that to you. If you want. I’ll tie you up and fuck you so stupid you’ll forget your major. I’ll make you come until you cry.”
“I want that,” Grace gasped, the words torn from her. “I do.”
Skye kissed her then, a deep, conquering kiss that tasted of sleep and promise. As their tongues tangled, Skye’s teasing finger finally slid lower, parting her soaked folds and pushing inside her pussy in one smooth, claiming stroke. Grace cried out into Skye’s mouth, her inner muscles clenching around the intrusion.
Skye broke the kiss, grinning against her lips. She started to move her finger, a slow in-and-out that was pure torture, while her mouth found the sensitive skin of Grace’s neck. She sucked and nipped, leaving marks that would linger under the shirt collar. Each bite was a counterpoint to the relentless rhythm of her hand.
“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” Skye demanded, her voice rough.
“Your… your laces,” Grace panted, her hips rocking to meet Skye’s thrusting finger. “The bedposts. You… behind me. Filling me up.”
“Yeah? You wanna be my birthday present, Grace? My pretty little gift to unwrap and use?”
“Yes. God, yes, Skye.”
Skye added a second finger, stretching her, scissoring them deep. The burn was exquisite. Grace’s hands flew to Skye’s shoulders, her nails digging into the skin. The desk creaked in protest beneath them.
“Then you better think of something good,” Skye growled, her fingers curling, finding that devastating spot inside her. Grace saw stars. Her orgasm was building, a terrifying crescendo in the pit of her stomach, fueled by the filthy promises whispered against her neck and the skilled, brutal pistoning of Skye’s hand.
The world narrowed to the point where Skye’s fingers met her body, to the hot breath on her skin, to the word “mine” echoing in her skull. She was coming undone on her own desk, in her girlfriend’s shirt, and nothing had ever felt more right.
Grace felt herself getting close, her legs wrapping round Skye and her hands gripping her muscular back. The orgasm was a tidal wave gathering force in her belly, a silent scream tightening her throat. Skye’s fingers worked her deeper, her mouth a hot brand on Grace’s neck, whispering, “Come on, baby, let me feel it.”
At that moment, the door to their room, left unlocked last night in their haste, opened.
The soft click of the latch was a gunshot in the humid quiet. There stood Grace’s mum, her car keys dangling from one hand, a reusable shopping bag in the other. Her cheerful, “Surprise! I brought your favorite muffins—” died instantly. Her face, usually bright with easy smiles, underwent a terrifying metamorphosis. Confusion first, a wrinkling of her brow as she took in the scene. Then dawning, horrific comprehension.
She saw her supposedly straight daughter sat on her desk in only socks, panties, and Skye’s oversized shirt, her legs wrapped around Skye’s waist. She saw Grace’s head thrown back in mute pleasure, her throat exposed, eyes clenched shut. She saw Skye’s lips attached to her daughter’s neck, saw the clear, deliberate movement of Skye’s forearm, the hand undoubtedly buried inside Grace’s underwear.
Time didn’t freeze. It shattered.
Grace’s eyes flew open. Skye’s mouth tore away from her skin with a wet sound. Skye’s hand jerked out of Grace’s panties, fingers glistening, and flew behind her own back as if to hide the evidence. The motion was furtive, guilty, making everything a thousand times worse. A cold draft from the hallway swept over Grace’s damp skin, raising goosebumps.
Her mother made a small, choked noise. It was the sound of a worldview collapsing.
“Mum,” Grace gasped. The word was a croak. She scrambled off the desk, her socked feet slipping on the wooden floor. She yanked the hem of Skye’s shirt down, a pathetic attempt at modesty that only highlighted how completely she was dressed in another woman’s clothes. Her body was still throbbing, aching, wet. The adrenaline coursing through her now was sickly, tainting the pleasure that had been there seconds before.
Her mother’s gaze was a physical weight, traveling from Grace’s disheveled hair and bruised neck, down the shirt, to her bare thighs. Then it swung to Skye, who stood rigid, her own face a mask of stark panic. Skye, usually so unflappable, looked like a cornered animal. “Mrs. Campbell,” she managed, her voice strangled.
“I…” Her mother blinked rapidly. The shopping bag slipped from her fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud. The muffins, no doubt blueberry, tumbled out. “I called. You didn’t answer. I thought I’d… surprise you.”
The silence that followed was cavernous, filled with the memory of moans and the stark reality of cheap desk wood and the smell of sex. Grace could see her mother connecting the dots: the sudden visits home dwindling, the rushed phone calls, the constant talk of “my roommate Skye.” Every anecdote now seemed like a clue she’d missed.
“You’re…” her mother began, then stopped. She looked at Skye again, really looked at her—the powerful physique in a bra and boyshorts, the marks on her own daughter’s skin. “You’re with her.” It wasn’t a question. It was an indictment.
“Mum, please,” Grace said, taking a step forward. The distance between them felt infinite.
Her mother took a step back, into the hallway. Her eyes were wide, glistening. Not with tears of joy. It was a look of profound betrayal, of a foundation giving way. “All this time,” she whispered. “You let me believe… you lied.”
“I didn’t lie!” The protest was automatic, desperate. “I just didn’t… I was figuring it out.”
“On her desk?” The question was a whip-crack, quiet and devastating. It hung in the air, graphic and unforgiving. It painted the scene all over again: the animal hunger, the debasement, the sheer raw filth of it. This wasn’t a gentle discovery of holding hands. This was the evidence, brutal and undeniable, of what her daughter really was, what she really did.
Her mother’s mouth tightened into a thin, pale line. She looked from Grace to Skye and back again, as if searching for the daughter she knew in the sweaty, half-naked stranger before her. She found none. Without another word, she turned. Her shoulders were hunched.
She walked down the hallway, her footsteps eerily measured. The front door opened. It closed with a quiet, definitive click.
The sound echoed through the silent house, through Grace’s bones. She stood rooted, the cold from the floor seeping up through her socks. Skye was staring at the empty doorway, her chest heaving. The marks on Grace’s neck burned like brands.
Skye finally moved, reaching for her blindly. “Grace.”
Grace flinched. It was barely perceptible, but Skye saw it. Her hand dropped. The space between them, so effortlessly crossed just minutes ago, was now a canyon filled with shame and shock. Grace looked down at the muffins on the floor. They looked obscene.
“She saw,” Grace said, her voice hollow. “She saw everything.”